Bring in the potted plants, trim the bottom  leaves of wild lime to concentrate the energy  pent up in their stems after most recent growth. Tune one ear to the garden's deepening notes and plush, orange-scrolled letters, the other  to the soft whisk of pages and summer linens  put away— Do the chalk-outlined gulls ever tire  of always trying to get ahead of themselves,  the ruffly whitecaps ahead of the wind, the wind-up woodpecker ahead of what answers its not  so secret code? Yet, though so much leathers  and cracks each day, they refuse to let go.    Night after night, the cold plummets.  We don't see so much as sense tiny pearls  of moisture leaving our mouths as breath.